


A Bride by Blood

by Brit Hux-Tico (birchwoods01)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Adultery, Barbed Penis, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Brief mention of miscarriage for minor character, Broken marriage, Dark Magic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demon Summoning, F/M, Gingerose, Gingerrose - Freeform, Lots of Cum, Menstrual blood, Mind Control, Paralysis, Pregnancy Kink, Rape, Ritual Cutting, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, disappearing panties, incubus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birchwoods01/pseuds/Brit%20Hux-Tico
Summary: Rose Tico's marriage to Ben Solo is suffering. She's certain he's having an affair, but believes that if she were to become pregnant, the child would save her marriage.Desperate, Rose finds a ritual on the dark web that promises a fertile womb, but it does not say exactly how. Little does she know what, or who, waits for her on the other side.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Comments: 20
Kudos: 67





	A Bride by Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I know I've been gone a long while. I've been doing some self-exploration, therapy pretty much, coming to terms with things about myself. As such, my writing is cycling a little bit darker now. It's therapeutic, and fiction is a safe place to explore such notions. Fiction helps us express the deepest parts of ourselves that are buried, help us come to terms with events in our life that we may not even understand. 
> 
> This fanfic is quite dark. **Mind the tags.** If you choose to comment, be kind. This is free fiction you're reading. You don't pay for it, so you don't have the right to tell me how to write. 
> 
> ALSO: The disappearing panties writer trope- NO I DID NOT FORGET TO HAVE HIM TAKE THEM OFF. He's a demon. He whisked them off with magic, and Rose did not notice because ORGASMS. LOL
> 
> I hope you find something in this that you enjoy.
> 
> Thanks to the MOST AMAZING BETA IN THE WORLD: [ @ElfMaidenOfLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfMaidenOfLight/pseuds/ElfMaidenOfLight).

The lights are all dimmed. Lit and flickering black candles, hand poured and embedded with parsley, form a ringed circle on the wooden floor of the dining room, casting long shadows from the furniture that has been hastily shoved aside into the corners, to make space. A ring of chalk has been drawn on the old, grain-patterned floorboards, filled with loops and curling lines resembling a sort of pentagram. 

Outside the circle, strange symbols have been drawn free-hand, the edges a little messy and out of place, as if the individual who’d drawn them had a trembling hand in the process. 

Silence floods the space, but for the gentle inhales and exhales of a soft, feminine voice near the archway entrance of the hall. 

A woman stands in the arch, the warm brown of her eyes blown out to tiny slivers in the dark as she studies her handiwork, a piece of chalk in one shaking and shuddering hand, a box of rattling matches in the other. 

Her long curtain of dark hair has been meticulously curled and spills down her back in silken sheen. Her lashes are long and lucious, half-false, half-real, winged liner curving out toward her brow. In the dark, the whites of her eyes appear larger, and her normally golden tan skin is quite pale in the candlelight glow, made more so by the bright, blood-red lipstick she sports on her pretty, pursed lips. 

She swallows a gathering of saliva, forcing herself to take deep, steady breaths as she studies the circle on the floor below. 

Her thoughts rattle and scatter: fear or foolishness? 

She cannot decide. 

Fear or foolishness… But she’s tried everything else. Nothing has worked. 

_What’s the worst that can happen?_ She’s asked herself a million times. She actually made a list:

I burn the house down. 

Ben has me committed to an insane asylum.

The blood won’t come out of the wooden floor. 

I get addicted to dark magic.

The cost may be too high.

All of these are worth it, even if every single one of them happens. 

The chalk and match box hit the floor, the white stick rolling with a loud _scrawl_ until it thunks into the wall and stops. 

Trembling, shaking, swaying, Rose Tico presses her hands to her empty womb as memories intrude.

_The telephone rings, and rings, and rings. No one answers. Rose calls again, tapping her toes repeatedly against the floorboards, chewing on her thumb nail._

_“Pick up, please…”_

_The phone line clicks on as the dial tone clicks off._

_“Ben’s phone, this is Rey!”_

_A black hole forms in her belly and swells, pressuring her other organs into screaming for mercy. Her legs threaten to give out._

_“Em-.. excuse me? Where is my husband?”_

_“Husband?”_

_Ben is in the background, yelling, snapping, fuming._

_“Rosie, baby,” his smooth voice picks up on the line. “I told you not to call unless it was an emergency.”_

_The negative pregnancy test is surprisingly still in Rose’s palm._

_“Oh, right…”_

_She slowly hangs up the phone._

**This will work.**

She tells herself over and over and over, as she reaches for the little tupperware container of a thick, viscous red fluid, and toes off her slippers in the archway. 

This **will work.**

It has to. 

Slowly, Rose steps barefoot into the center of the pentagram shape.The floor-length, see-through lace of her ebony wrap gown brushing in the chalk and trailing little rolling cast off granules of white along the floor. Her red-tipped fingers tremble as she pries off the turquoise lid of the little container and turns and tosses it onto the dining room table top, wincing when a splatter of the red fluid slides out of the lid and hits the white lace cover, staining it crimson. 

“Steady, Rose,” she murmurs, closing her eyes and leaning her head back to lift her chin high, breathing in and out through her nose, calming herself. 

The rules of the ritual are simple: complete on the second day of ovulation on the night of a full moon, having collected a sample of menstrual fluid the cycle just before ovulation. 

Rose had thought it might be difficult to maneuver, initially; it had taken months for her cycle to line up with the lunar. 

But Ben was… very busy. 

A baby will save their marriage. Rose is sure of it. 

At the very least, a baby will save her. 

“My soul is low and bare,” Rose begins, reciting the premonary incantation by heart, having memorized it these last long lonely months, repeating word for word the exact poetical mantra that she’d discovered on a dark web corner of the internet. 

A user swore this worked for a woman in Norway, two hundred years ago, his own grandmother. She’d had fifteen miscarriages by the age of twenty-nine. 

“My heart, crestfallen in shatters,” Rose murmurs, her voice stronger now, as she dips her fingers in the blood from her own body, the blood she’d gathered a week prior in a diva cup, before storing in the refrigerator. 

The woman in Norway had fifteen beautiful, ginger-haired babies, who had all grown up to be healthy and wealthy, successful adults. 

Rose’s heart strains with need and hunger as she shakes the blood from her fingertips into the circle, spatters them in the chalk as she turns slowly, step by step by step in place. 

“My soul is low and bare and my heart crestfallen in shatters,” she repeats, finishing the circle, then does it again, watching the thick, scarlet droplets as they gather in sprinkles upon the floor, smeared on her fingertips. 

Lines of red fluid bleed over the chalk and turn pink. She steps in some and it smears along the palm of her foot, leaving tiny pink footprints in the center where she turns. 

When the blood is gone, Rose upturns the container toward her tongue, wincing with disgust at what is to come, and closes her eyes, allowing the last final droplets to drizzle into her mouth. 

She coughs, shakes her head, and forces herself to swallow. 

“I come-,” she pants desperately, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before launching the tupperware container across the room. “On my knees before you-”

She kneels slowly in the messy blur of the chalk circle, her robe sweeping out beside her ankles, dragging in the bloody mess. 

“A willing bride.”

Her lips press together and part with a nervous sigh as she reaches into the cleft between her breasts, retrieving a tiny switchblade knife. She activates the blade, studies it in the dim, flickering glow of candlelight, then turns it toward her wedding finger on her left hand. 

The wedding band from Ben is safe in it’s jewelry box on her night stand. 

The blade cuts into her flesh at the base of her finger, where her ring would normally sit, and she curls it around, gritting her teeth and grunting, hissing, sighing with pain as she slices open the skin surrounding the digit. 

The knife clatters to the floor and Rose almost falters, bites at her tongue to keep herself from crying out. 

It is a stipulation for the ritual; if she cries, she is unwilling. She must be willing. 

Blood pools in her palm, her fingers trembling, as she raises her left hand high up into the air. She positions her knees, fanned out like a butterfly’s wings, toes curled back on the wood to prop her ass up on her heels. She straightens her spine and tilts back her head, letting her eyes fall closed. 

“Eremos Houxley,” she utters clearly, chanting the final incantation. “Eremos Houxley! Eremos Houxley! EREMOS HOUXLEY!”

Silence surrounds her, muffling even the sound of the flickering candle tips in the breeze from the air conditioning unit of the home she used to share with Ben. Rose waits, wanting to be obedient, wanting to trust the spell, knowing that the end result was supposed to be that all the candles burn brighter, then extinguish, and that is how she will know that it worked. 

But nothing happens. She can still see the glow of the candles behind her eyelids, dancing bright red as fury in the dark. 

Her hopes start to sink, but she rallies, tightens her right hand against her belly, as if she could feel the kick of a baby there already. 

A thin trail of blood weaves down her raised arm, snaking into her dark, lacey sleeve. 

She is about to give up, about to shift, to curl into a ball in her own menstrual blood on the floor and _weep_ , when a powerful force like a wind whips through the room. 

The candles hiss and sizzle around her, roar brighter than ten thousand suns-

Then extinguish. 

Shivers run up and down Rose’s spine. 

Slowly… she opens her eyes to pitch black darkness. 

_Did it work?_ She thinks, but does not say. 

“Yes,” the darkness answers her back. “Yes, it most certainly did.”

Rose startles, her toes and calves flexing so that she jumps slightly and turns halfway around in the direction of the voice. But the room is darker than oil, and just as thick. Even the gauze-like curtains at the windows reveal no moonlight, though it is full. She cannot find the window panes in the black. 

There is nobody to accompany the voice, and Rose wonders if she has imagined it; convinces herself of this very concept. She turns to place a palm flat on the floor, intent on pushing herself to her feet, to make her way to the bathroom to find the set of pregnancy tests she’d bought to use afterward, even if she feels foolish. This most certainly did not not work.

But as she balances herself on the floor, one palm down on the hardwood, it gives beneath her weight, now plush and spongy with a warm, silky soft surface. Rose rocks her knees, thinks she makes a soft gasp in the night, as she sways now on what feels like a bed of pillows or broad, flat cushions stacked closely together. 

_I’m losing it_ , she tells herself, turning frantically on her heels, bumbling along the floor for the feeling of hardwood, for the grain paste of chalk and blood. 

“Now now, darling girl,” comes the voice, once more, from the dark. “I will not have that. You are _entirely_ sane.”

Rose turns her head in the direction of the sharply accented voice, blind as a bat, but ears picking up the growling, sensual timber of the tone, male, deep, broad, playful. It dances around the room, away from her, faster than any human being can move. 

Shivers tremble and scatter down her spine on staccato pinpoints. 

_Get out of my house!_

She thinks she speaks it, but cannot hear the words, merely feels them taking shape in her mind. Her mouth is closed, struck mute. 

The voice chuckles sinisterly. 

One single, lone candle sparks to life behind her. Rose can hear it spit and sizzle, hissing and roaring as timid as a candle can do, and the small, enclosed space lights with a gentle haze of a glow. 

Her heart stutters as she takes in the circular walls, which are close, impossibly close, and covered in yards and yards of tumbling, scarlet curtain. The entire floor is littered with black and red cushions, some with elegant tassels, others covered in lace, others embroidered. There is a baroque, almost romantic touch to the style of decor, but she sees very little. 

And she cannot turn her head. 

She kneels where she is, still as stone, torso straight and small of her back curved, knees splayed out, chin held high. 

She wants to whimper, but her red lips will not move. She wants to cry but her eyes are dry. 

“Oh.”

The voice growls behind her, absolute euphoric awe and wonder abound in this meager sound, and the cushions behind her bend and tug with the soft, clipped steps of another, the fabric sinking and stretching beyond where her toes are perched as the male voice comes closer. 

“You are- stunning.”

Rose’s cheeks flush with flattery, even as her heart flutters in panic. 

_Who are you- who- go- go away!!_

She screams in her thoughts, wanting to move, imagines scrambling to her feet and scurrying away, running from this predator that has slowly taken up space behind her.

“Absolutely perfect.”

He enunciates his t’s; they are sharp dagger points in the dark. Rose’s skin shudders. 

“I am… oh so pleased with you, Rose Tico,” he elaborates, voice humming with a tense, vibrating hunger, like the tender growling roar of a lion. “Pity we need to leave the gag until our contract is sealed.”

_Gag? What gag?_

He chuckles again, and something brushes gently in her hair, fingers, the tips finding the base of her skull, massaging pads into her neck, which results in easing some of her tension. Even her mind blisses for a moment, a blank slate of gorgeous, tender submission washing over her thoughts. Her body preens, head rolling back into his touch, and her eyes lift to the endless ceiling lost in the dark. 

She sees his face.

Tears slip, unbidden, two, three blips down the round swell of her cheeks. 

He is Adonis, Eros, Apollo, or Poseidon, she cannot decide. His eyes seem to glow like embers in the dim dark light, but are as jewels, shimmering from the coldest blue to the warmest, ocean cerulean teal. 

His face is what makes her weep: she’s seen it before, in statues at the Louvre when she visited Paige and her girlfriend in Paris the summer after she graduated college. He is all together anguish and agony, bliss and beauty, chiseled stone and living, breathing art. 

His expression is one of benevolent tenderness, soft, plush plum lips pulled in a wry smile, perfect ginger brows loose with ease. His hair is as living flame, colors dancing in the candlelight upon his skull, red-orange strands cut close and waved along his head, combed gently into submission. 

He is perfection. 

“Tsk tsk,” he clicks his tongue, pursing his lips and shaking his head slowly from side to side, holding her gaze in his like a snake. “My bride shall not cry on her wedding day.”

Rose’s mind panics, flies into overdrive, and she strains against the invisible shackles of her body, rattles the bars in her mind and screams. 

_I’m married, I’m married, to Ben, to Ben S-_

Her thoughts cut off mid-phrase; silenced. 

Rose’s eyes roam his face, and the faintest glimmer of disgusted fury is found there. He turns, shifts like a prowling panther, then in a few flickers as of candlelight, is before her, kneeling with his thighs outspread, balanced on the balls of his feet, arms propped on his knees, studying her. 

He is completely, entirely nude. 

“It isn’t your fault,” he whispers, raising one large, spider-like hand to gently graze a curl out of her eye. He tucks it with pale, spindly touch behind her ear. “He was cruel to you, my poor dear. You do not understand. But all is well, now. I am here.”

Rose tries to gather her thoughts but they are muted, too, words flying away from her as if she can no longer remember what language is. The heart in her chest beats with panic and her palms dampen with sweat, wide, brown eyes raving as they flicker back and forth over the man before her. 

She is unable to keep from looking, drawn to the erection swinging between his thighs. Her mind whimpers, but her lips follow, two distinctly different sounds: one of fear, another arousal.

“I will explain quickly, for your benefit.”

The man cocks his head to the side, moves his large, warm palm to her cheek, cupping it, caressing it, sliding his fingers back into her hair and massaging gently at her scalp. 

“This ritual is a bonding ritual. I am an incubus,” he narrates carefully, soulful eyes glittering. 

Rose cannot keep from staring at his cock, swollen and veiny, flesh-colored yet reddish at the base, and pink at the tip, with some sort of flared gradient of color behind the plump mushroom plume of the head. Her body shifts uncomfortably on the pillows, a meager reaction to the horror she feels inside. 

She knows what’s coming. 

The man does not seem to be derailed by her fixation on his member, rather, he holds his knees out wide and does not conceal it; allows her this exuberant exploration with her eyes. Even revels in it, as the impish smirk on his lips implies. 

“Incubi feed on the sexual energy produced by remarkable intercourse. The details of our bond are thus: every lifetime I take a bride, a woman to fulfill my lascivious appetite, and in return, I give them all the children they could ever want for.”

Rose’s eyes widen as he explains. Her heart hammers, her lips press thin, but still she cannot respond beyond these meager motions. 

“Your ex-husband will never hurt you again.”

This is stated as a promise, with hushed lullaby tones and a tender tucking of her chin in his two outstretched fingertips. 

“You are mine now. I will take care of you.”

He rises to his feet then and strolls behind her, the pillows and cushions sinking beneath his weight. A deep and undeniable feeling of intrigue is beginning to overpower her, some small part of her creeping out from beneath the deep, dark secret place inside, enticed by his promise. 

_He will take care of you,_ this part tells her. _He will give you all that Ben does not, all the love, the support, the sex, the children!_

But loyalty abounds. 

She tries to say no, tries to tremble, tries to cry out, but he is behind her now, full, plump lips as warm as white beach sand on a sunny day press to her neck, her shoulder, her arm, the upper cleft of her breast. Rose is shocked, surprised to find her robe is already falling, sliding down her arms, then gone, draped away upon the floor. 

Her breasts are exposed, fully nude, nipples pert and alert in the cool, crisp air. 

Something warm and damp and deliciously soft surrounds them, envelops them, caresses and massages and-... and suckles on them, slick and chilled like water, but ever so deliciously warm. 

She looks down, and the sight there has her swooning, falling backward into the hold of the man that is, funnily enough, waiting behind her to catch her in his arms. She’s cradled now in his lap, while long, curling tendrils of darkness massage and lap at her breasts. 

Her lips part to let out a long, sultry moan. 

Her assaulting lover pants hot in her ear. 

“Oh, your voice is delightful,” he croons darkly, palming her belly and slowly sliding his grip down toward her lacey red panties. “If only you could say my name.”

“Armitage-”

The word leaves her lips unbidden, and internally, Rose swirls with desperation and agony, confusion overwhelming her as she blinks rapidly in question. 

What even is this word, what is this, what is any of this? 

“My name,” he breathes in her ear, biting her earlobe as his fingers lift the lining of her lacey drawers. “Armitage Hux, at your service.”

“Armitage, Armitage,” Rose’s body parrots. “Armmmmmmitage Hux-!”

The moan draws out as his fingers find her labia, as they plow and pick through her swollen lips, soused already with thick, sloppy sliding slick that smick-smacks as he draws his touch through it. 

“See how you drench for me?” 

His fingers probe her pussy; he gropes for her greedy little hole, pressing his monstrously large cock between her ass cheeks where they rock together in their position on the floor. 

Rose’s back arches and her lips cry out with a punching moan as he sinks three fingers inside, a splitting pain soothed by immediate coaxing touch. Her hips writhe, slutty, whoreish for him, and she rolls, rides his hand with delicate, grunting “unh- unh- unh’s” and hissing moans. 

“Perfect little wife,” he sneers, and the tendrils at her breasts work harder, twist tighter on her nipples, suck further, faster, pumping her as if she may have milk inside to feed their dark desires. 

_Not-...... NOT…. YOUR WIFE_

“So strong, trying to fight this.”

His tone condescends, simpers, as his fingers squelch inside her, pumping fast, and somehow, someway, seeming to elongate, to reach deeper, curling and hooking up against the back of her clit in that perfect little spot, while another smoky tendril works it’s way down her belly. 

“Tell me how you feel, then.”

Like a five billion pound weight lifting, Rose’s mind springs into action, her thoughts flinging furious insults and rages at him.

_Fuck you, get off me, this is my body- my- my husband is- you- HUX- YOU-_

The chuckle he makes starts small and seems to build in dark presence until it is ricocheting off the walls around them. 

Her body is spasming, her lips parted and eyes squeezed shut to the pleasure as her cries build: “unh- unh- unh- UNH- UNH- UNH-!”

“You’re going to come.”

_No- No I’m not- don’t you-_

“You’re going to come here on my hand, and then on my cock.”

_No no no no no-_

“Yes.”

_NO!_

His hand is pumping furiously, _smack smack smack_ , assaulting the air around them with the erotic sound. The room smells of heated inferno and sulfur and pussy, and the tendrils of darkness are sucking and rolling and flicking and licking and Rose swears she’s going insane as one slides between her lips and consumes her clit, sucks it down it’s forever black hole, and her brain becomes one large vacuous space of blank nothingness.

She comes.

Her throat tears with the scream of pleasure that rips out of her, like the screech of a million bats startled from their cave. She convulses against him as one possessed, irises rolling back in her skull, whites of her eyes showing only, as pleasure the likes of which she’s never, ever known rips over her flesh and rends her soul in two. 

Her brain is fogged with euphoria, floating on a bobbing river of lava, clinging only by two little clawed hands as the devil himself sucks out her life through her cunt. 

Everything is ravaged.

Until everything is still. 

Vaguely, she becomes aware of him kissing her, sweet, gentle presses to her sweat soaked temples and her shoulders. The shadow tendrils, too, peck and preen and pluck at her flesh, gentle suck-suck kisses. His hand between her legs pets her like a kitten, strokes and loves on her. 

No one has ever-... never- 

Not a single lover-

Her lips break with a whimper. 

“Shhhh, there there,” he whispers, nuzzling her head with his nose and cheek. “I’ve got you, little angel.”

Everything feels… wrong. 

Most of all that not even her spouse has ever been able to elicit such a sexual climax from her.

“I am your spouse, now.”

It leaves him in a dark, possessive snarl that shivers the very roots of Rose’s hair. She thinks for a moment of lashing out at him, but her second instinct is to nestle closer, to comfort him, to reassure him that, indeed, she understands. 

As this thought occurs, her head moves of her own accord, and nestles in close against his throat, nuzzles the top of her damp hair into his chin. 

His very breathing changes, fills with pleasured joy in the way he tenses with excitement and his breath hitches. The shadowy tendrils caress and stroke, and his arms encircle her. 

_I-... how did I, did you let me move?_

There are better things she could be asking, demanding: let me go, for one. Get off me, another. 

But… it feels… good. 

A snakelike hiss of delighted amusement leaves him, but he does not explain. 

“On your knees, my pet.”

Again, her body acts against her will, carries her into a kneeling position. Rose is more lurid now, her brain foggy from climax, her body feeling loose and deliciously sated, even as the slop between her thighs makes them slip slide where they touch and she drizzles onto the pillows as she rises. 

Shame blooms on her face in the form of heated blush, but he tsks at her chagrin, and taps lightly against her ass with his palm. 

“Good. Now present this beautiful bottom, if you would be so kind.”

The blush deepens, but Rose’s body does as it’s told, and she slinks forward on her palms against the cushioned floor, kneeling there before him like a dog on all four legs, her legs spread wide to take him. 

The demon is silent for a long moment, which allows Rose’s internal dialogue of terror to build.

_Please, can you just-_

Her thoughts cut off as something fat, and hard, and long, and wide, and hot as a fire-red poker piles into her from behind. Rose’s body sways forward on her limbs from the pressure, and her lips form a perfect “o” from which no sound comes, too high and too shrill for her own ears to hear; she only catches the tail end of the shriek as it peters off into a delirious moan. 

He’s moving already, silent but for the grunts of his exerting breath, his palms gripping her ass cheeks and fingernails piercing her thighs. They feel like claws, long and actually embedded in her flesh. She can feel little drivels of blood sliding down her thigh, but it’s nothing-

Not with the way he fills her. 

It’s purest agony, like someone plugged her up with a broadsword that had not been fully pounded into submission by hammer and anvil, burning hotter than hell and getting hotter every second with the friction he builds. She almost goes numb from the motion, his hips pistoning with the force of a runaway speed train to hell- maddening.

Her brain is blissfully turned off, choked silent as if his monster cock were stuffed down her proverbial throat instead.

All she can think as he pile-drives into her twitching and spastic body, is nothing at all. 

“H-H-Harder-” her body gasps. 

“With- pleasure,” he grunts. 

His prowess kicks up like a storming hurricane and she is screaming,. 

_Slap slap slap,_ his balls sound as they ram into her shaking ass cheeks. Rose hangs low, breasts pulled down by gravity and swaying like cow udders. Her spine curves as she dips down, fists tightening on the crimson cushions, opening her mouth to bite into the pillow as she gives a legit scream.

He’s tearing her insides apart, rearranging them as he hammers her cervix. He palms her belly and shifts her until she’s raised more, at a deeper angle, and full on snarls like an animal as he fills her deep with his cock. She’s a stuck pig on a spear, squealing and flailing, fishtailing as another mind-blowing orgasm begins to take her. 

“Yessssssss coooooome,” he moans like the harbinger of death, like the blowing of a bugle sounding the end of the world. 

“Unhhhhhhhhhhhhhn please-” Rose begs. 

A shadowy tendril creeps inside her open mouth and floods her throat, slithering down, down, down into her belly until she is sloppily breathing, saliva drenching down her chin, choked, gagging sounds as she snorts air like a furious bull through her nostrils. 

Behind her, the demon laughs, and tendrils envelope her entire body, wrap around her, hold her still, loop around her throat, her ass, her thighs, her belly, her waist, her breasts, bearing them aloft and suckling on her nips again, as another peeks at her ass. It worms its way inside as the tension builds. 

“You’re mine,” Hux bellows, lets her fall into the cushions where the shadows tie her down and pile onto her, a crushing weight that forces the air from her lungs in a broken moan. 

“Mine- my girl, my wife, that’s it- come for me!”

White hot fire ensnares her senses. Rose cannot see, or hear, as she shatters walls with her gagging, choking scream, drooling saliva and eyes rolling like the mad. Her body spasms, a seizing flip flop of muscle, and she claws at the pillows, digging her toes into the ground, her head rolling side to side. 

She goes limp, brain-dead, a moaning pile of jelly, and Hux is still fucking. 

He finishes soon, however, having fed his delight on her sexual energy. His cock pierces deep, and as if in slow motion, seems to elongate; Rose can feel the fat, plump swell of his mushroom tip pressing deep against her inner wall. It seems to flare, seems to explode, and suddenly she’s incredibly full, then with one last retreating pull of his hips, some fifty little pin-like barbs catch and scrape at her inner walls, erupting her entire abdominal area with sudden, fierce pain.

“Shit- mother- FUCK! Ahhhhhhhhhhn-!”

Rose bites down on a pillow as he thrusts again, the barbs receding, then pulls back. They catch once more, this time sliding in a little smoother, but pain still bleeds where they’re caught.

Behind her, Hux grunts low, deep growling moans as his cock begins to pulse and spill. Below, lying on the cushions, Rose writhes as if she can get away, but each pull forward yanks on her flesh inside. It aches, a deep, low, throbbing pain that is slowly starting to feel more and more like pleasure. 

But the heat- it spurts and splashes in the deepest channel of her cunt, splatters like sopping, boiling milk that fills and flows and sloshes with each and every little tilt of her hips. It takes her very long, blinking seconds to realize it’s his _cum_ that fills her, and with each little moan and shudder of his hips, he spills more and more, until she can feel him seeping and slipping out the sides of his still buried cock. 

Seconds later, he collapses above her, hands wrapping around her center and pulling her in against his chest where he cradles her, still caught on his cock. Moments pass in waiting, both partners panting and collecting themselves, and together they tumble over onto their sides, Rose cradled in the demon’s hold. 

Rose’s eyes are wide, wide open, staring at the disappearing ceiling up above, her legs propped wide, cum and slip coating her thighs and Hux’s thighs behind her. 

It surprises her to discover she can move, but she does not care. When she lifts her head from the cushion beneath, her body floods with tiny, miniscule orgasms, millions of sparkling and infiltrating electric pulses that source from the cock buried and barbed deep inside her. 

She tries to open her mouth to speak and half-faints with pleasure, ripples of cum seeping and orgasmic delight swelling her brain into silence. 

Her new lover cradles her from behind, humming in delight at each and every mini-gasm she gives him. He consumes them off of her flesh with long, low curls of his tongue, licking away her sweat and her tears, tendrils lapping away their mixed spend between her thighs. A few of them strike her clit, again and again, then more forcefully as if realizing she was close, and she blows again, flung far out onto a stormy ocean with no chance of survival. 

She moans, long and low and senseless, unconsciously turning her body in his arms slightly in his arms to see him better, nestling and pressing herself up against his chest, clutching, clinging, needy. 

Rose does not know how long they lay there together. The time passes with continuous pleasure, like one year-long orgasm she can never escape. The pleasure slows to a low, chanting hum, and slowly, Rose comes to herself, becomes sane again, aware that this man holds her like she is his one true love, bathes her with kisses and sweet, tender words. 

_You please me, you’re so beautiful, my sweet starlight girl_ he whispers. The words imbue her heart with strength and worm inside her like a spell, spattering her brain like starlight on the blank, black canvas of night. 

His cum fills her, almost like a belly full of food. When she shifts, it sloshes. His barbed cock no longer hurts her, but has gone numb in the locations where she is pricked. 

Her pussy squeezes and Rose feels it, feels everything thick and full inside her, knowing the pleasure is now wearing off. 

She turns her head to glance up at the face of the demon man behind her. He looks to be sleeping now, eyes closed and face so angelic she could weep. 

Her breath hitches and her heart hammers. 

“. . . So-... so how long until… until I’m pregnant?”

His lips pull in a little smile and his laugh shakes his chest, deep and sleepy rumbly. 

Rose blushes. 

“You’re pregnant now,” he whispers, kisses her temple. “But we’ll fuck again in an hour or so, just to be sure. How many children would you like?”

Rose’s eyes widen and her lips pull in a slight little smile. 

“I… I get to… get to choose?”

Seafoam green eyes flutter open and pierce her with a stunning stare. He slides closer, mouths over her lips, pumping his cock once more deep inside her. It sucks and sloshes with the sound of cum as the barbs disconnect, then re-insert, much more gently, a last little spurt of seed making its way into the crucible of her womb. 

“My wife gets everything her heart desires,” he promises, then claims her lips in a kiss that is most pure and chaste for a sex demon.

But Rose does not seem to mind. Her heart flutters as she kisses him back, slow little nips to his lips as her hands raise to caress his cheeks. 

Her gaze is distracted by a bright, glinting color on her wedding finger. During the ritual, she had made a cut all around her finger. Now, where there had been blood and open wound, was a shiny rose-gold ring decorated with leafy foliage vines and floral patterns, something beautiful and just as baroque as the decorations of this room. It does not surprise her, nor is she disappointed or confused to see it there. It makes all the radiant sense in the world. 

Remarkably, there is no guilt. There is no regret. There is no fear. There is only peace and joy, the warm, wild anticipation of the numerous ginger-headed babies this man is going to give her. 

Funnily enough, Rose does not seem to mind so much anymore. And she is entirely herself. 

“. . . when you say everything… ?” she hedges, curious. 

His answering chuckle vibrates her entire body, infectious, and she laughs with him. 

“Everything, my pet.”

Rose ponders a long moment, watching his pretty pale ginger lashes flutter against his cheekbones and open again, hypnotized by the gesture. 

“Can you… get rid of my husb-... ex-husband?”

Demon Hux falls silent, his breath still, his eyes piercing hers. They are the only things that move, scanning her face for her expression. 

Lips pulling into the most sinister smirk Rose has ever witnessed, Hux leans inward and presses a kiss to the very tip of her nose. 

“Of course, my darling. With pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

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